


Laphroaig in the Lumber Room

by wordybirdy



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Drinking Games, Fluff and Humor, Love Confessions, M/M, Requited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-04
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:02:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24003280
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordybirdy/pseuds/wordybirdy
Summary: Holmes & Watson discover a bottle of Laphroaig inside the lumber room at Baker Street.  A drinking game of truth results in intimate confessions.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 38
Kudos: 217





	Laphroaig in the Lumber Room

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [«Лафройг» в кладовой](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24124228) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)



“Holmes,” I said, “this room's a mess.”

It was, in fact, quite worse than that. The lumber room at Baker Street was filled to great capacity with stacks of books, newspapers, chests and furniture. It stretched towards the ceiling and it cluttered on the floor. The room was large; it made no matter. We had stuffed it full regardless.

Sherlock Holmes drew in a breath and held it there some length of time, the course of which I watched him both with fascination and alarm. Just at the point where I believed he should turn dizzy and lightheaded, he exhaled. “I have to find it, all the same,” said he.

“It” pertained, regrettably, to a small document of legal type.

“Are you quite sure it's here?” I asked.

“No, I'm _not_ sure,” he said, all tetch and pique. “But we've exhausted every other route.”

“You might have tossed it out,” I said. Holmes made a noise of mild anxiety. He kicked a box. He eased himself out of his jacket, hung it neatly on the door peg, whence he turned around to look at me. “Watson,” he said slowly, “I _never_ toss things out.”

“No,” I agreed. “You hoard things here. And that is why this room's a mess.” He looked so stately, fine and graceful, standing there in just his shirt-sleeves, hands perched neatly on his hips, his legs apart and primed for battle. I had loved him for a long time; ever patient, ever silent, ever hoping. And yet my hope dwindled a little more each day, as dust or sand might renegotiate its place within the heart. “Where should we start?”

“You try the chests,” said Holmes. His hand smoothed back his hair. “I'll take the boxes.”

Was I a sad, deluded creature to have wanted him these years? _Three years!_ He treated me with courtesy, with friendship, fond, affectionate. Sometimes his way with me was brusque and cold; those days would send me spiralling down into dark despair. When he was warmer, I would test him; I would touch his hand but lightly, link my arm with his when walking through the city, pat his knee to stress a point in conversation. All these things, to no avail. He would respond, but on his own terms; two weeks later I might see him light my cigarette, his grey eyes close to mine, his fingers steady with the match, knuckles to brush my cheek, a half smile on his face. Then he would draw away, quite nonchalant, to pass some pithy comment on the weather, or the hour, or the complexities of palimpsests. I craved his mouth, his touch, his body, hot and trembling beside me, folding out as a shy bud into a potent petalled bloom, all slick and sweat and gasp and groan.

I craved these things, and dreamed of more.

“Watson, the _chests_ ,” said Holmes.

“Of course.” 

I allowed myself to dream, due to his very clear aversion to the fairer sex. A chivalrous opponent all the same, but he distrusted womankind, and deemed their motives fair inscrutable. _How can you build on such a quicksand?_ I would scold him but half-heartedly, for I could tell he bore no malice but a general disinterest. If the world were filled with men and men alone, that would well please him. He was a solitary creature though; I saw no chink between his plated armour. I might tap away a little at it, hoping to reach flesh some day. I'd seize the golden opportunity!

For now, I opened chests and peered inside them, brushing cobwebs to the side, sneezing and spluttering. How could all of this accumulate in such a brief expanse of time? I side-eyed Holmes, who was now dirtying his trouser knees in front of some large box of curling papers, scrolled and ribboned, neatly bundled, and I watched him as he flung them every which way, rolling underneath a bureau in the corner of the room.

“Don't make things worse,” I said. “The mess you've made.”

“Mess, mess, mess,” he crooned. “It's all you think about.” 

The window bore no curtain, and the evening gloom stretched in to meet the shadows that roamed freely by the glimmer of the lamp. I rather wished we might have waited 'til the morning to begin this wretched task, but Holmes was set on his pursuit and I would tag along behind, avoiding spiders, blowing dust from here to there – did Mrs. Hudson _ever_ clean in here at all? 

I had set a stack of notebooks to one side, and was riffling through envelopes and folders when I happened to glance up towards my friend. He caught my eye. He seemed to start, as if his previous attention had been scuttled to one side. I could not tell where he'd been gazing; at some point around the back of me. I turned my head to look. “What is the matter, Holmes?”

“Nothing.”

He often did this: sharp eyes softening and narrowing, to fix upon a point quite close upon me, where it dawdled, oft for minutes at a time. And I might ask him _What is the matter?_ , and he'd shake himself, and mutter _Nothing, Watson. I was just thinking, that is all._

“I haven't found it yet,” I said. “Have you?”

“Well, no,” said he. “If I had, I would have said so, don't you think?”

We worked our way around the room. At some short interval he paused; I heard a soft, low exclamation. From the depths of a small box, Holmes drew a bottle which he raised that I might see. “Look what I found.”

“Is that Laphroaig?” I asked, impressed. “How did it get there?”

My friend shrugged. “I don't remember.” He examined it more closely. “Hmm. A good year for single malt.”

“I never knew a bad one yet,” I smiled.

He rose, and brushed his trouser legs. He tutted at his boots. He whisked his jacket from its peg. “Come on.”

“To where?”

“Back to the sitting room. I'm bored with chasing documents. There's whisky to be had.” He clutched the bottle and was gone, to leave me picking up the lamp and throwing one last mournful look upon the chaos we'd created and were abandoning, it seemed.

The sitting room was warm and comfortable. The whisky was uncorked, and Holmes had poured us each a finger, and we sat close to the fire to take our sip of it.

“I remember now,” said Holmes. “It was a gift from old Bartholomew. We solved that case of his, you know the one. His parrot swore at you.”

“Oh yes,” I said. “That bird.” I laughed. “But still, I can't see how you lost the bottle in the lumber room to start with.”

“Never mind all that,” said he. He now leaned forward in his chair. “What do you say we play a game?”

“A game?” I stared at him. “Of cards?”

“Ugh! _No._ A game of truth.” He smiled, and waved his glass.

“A _drinking_ game?”

He nodded slowly.

“But--” I was confused. “But, Holmes – a _drinking_ game?”

He tutted, rolled his eyes. “I never took you for a prude.”

“A prude?! I'm nothing of the sort. But, Holmes--”

He burst out into laughter then. I followed suit, bewildered, but delighted all the same. This was a side to him I'd not been often privileged to see. “What are the rules?”

“Oh, well, you know. We both take turns. You make a statement. A deduction. If it's true, I take a sip of this fine whisky. If it's false, then it's my turn. I make a statement. And etcetera.”

“Until we're blazing drunk,” I said, still chuckling. He smirked. “Well, you should start, as it's your game.” I raised my glass to him. “And cheers.”

Holmes settled back into his chair. He set his whisky glass beside him, and he steepled his long fingers to a point beneath his chin. 

“You miss your brother,” he said softly.

I nodded; took a sip.

“You would prefer to be a writer.”

My eyebrows shot into my head. “Well, yes, I think I might, that's true enough. I do enjoy being creative, and--”

“Don't forget to—” (and here Holmes made a tipping motion with his hand.)

I drank. “I don't think this is fair,” I said, complaining. “You're too good at all this sort of thing. I'll never get a statement in.”

He sighed. “Oh, very well. We'll divvy up. It's now one statement to a turn.”

“That is much better.” I thought carefully. The vaguest canny notion was emerging through the amber-tinted crystal in my hand. “I am the first real friend you've had.”

He flushed bright pink. “For heaven's sake! You don't waste time.” He shifted; crossed his legs, uncrossed them. “And you're _wrong_.”

“Oh! Who was the other? Others?”

Holmes shook his head. “Another time. I won that round.” He sniffed. “You exaggerate your war wound.”

“I do not.” I scowled. “Sometimes you guess solutions.”

He looked uncomfortable. He sipped. 

“Aha!” I said.

“Be quiet, Watson. It rarely happens. Oh, blast this game! You'd shave your moustache if I requested it.”

“You don't like it?”

“Yes, I like it,” he said, frowning. 

“Well, I would.” I took a sip. “I'd grow it back, though.” (He hid a smile behind his hand.) “You've never been in love.”

He started; turned his head away. My heart lurched in my chest. My god, he'd been in love.

“ _You've_ never been in love,” said he.

We stared each other down.

“I see,” said Holmes.

“You're still in love,” I said.

His cheeks grew pinker. “Should we stop this game?” he said.

“No, we should not.”

He sipped his whisky sullenly. “ _You're_ still in love.”

I took the bottle of Laphroaig, refilled my glass, and drank from it. Something was happening. I didn't know quite what. I took a moment to evaluate, to watch my friend discomfited, to wonder what it meant. I assumed a girl had bruised his heart and ego long ago; he'd not recovered from the smart of it, ergo his cool disdain. That must be it. It did not please me to imagine that. “You inject more than you ought to,” I said quietly.

He sipped. “It's true. I do.” He sounded sad.

“Can I ask why?”

He made a gesture by his head. “It moves too fast, I can't keep up with it. You don't know what it's like.”

“It will destroy you.”

“Yes, I know.” And now defeated. “You wish to marry; have a family.”

I looked at him. “Well, no.”

Holmes stared. “Why not?” I saw his fingers grip the fabric of his chair-arm, twist it fretfully. “You'll want to move out some day, after all.”

“I doubt I will.” My heart: a hummingbird; a cirrus cloud; a hungry, stamping bird on fertile soil. “There's much you do not know of me.” A Laphroaig haze as catalyst! “ _You_ wish to marry; have a family.”

We laughed then, and the sound was sweet and calming.

“I do not.”

“And I am glad of that.”

We sat the straighter in our chairs. “You _pretend_ I aggravate you,” Holmes said quietly.

I sipped. “You never do. And you _pretend_ that I am denser than you might wish me to be.”

He took a drink. “You have me fair and square.” His grey eyes fixed me to the spot. “You have me, John.”

A pregnant pause. “It is your turn,” I said. My head, comprised of whisky, crimson thoughts of him. _He called me John._

“That was my turn,” said he.

My blood, now heading south. My head a faint, my fingers trembling. Those fingers, in a tremble, raised my glass up to my lips. I took a swallow, placed the glass upon the table, turned to look at him. “I'll take you,” I said softly.

And he scooted to his chair-edge, and I scooted so to mine, and we both sat there, tense and coiled, perchance to pounce.

“Damn you, I knew it,” he said, flushed. “Would you have waited sixty years?”

“I would have burst,” I said. I took him in my arms. I took his mouth. It tasted sweet, of peat, of spirit, yet of love. His tongue caressed mine, and we teetered, quite off-balance, 'til I pushed him back, seduced his neck with fevered, white-hot presses of my lips.

“I love you desperately,” I whispered in his ear. “And I have wanted you for so long, longer than you'll ever know.”

He was all motion; undulation. His cries were low-pitched; wanton, needy, and his legs curled up around me, and I felt his heat, his hardness, his desire.

“You'd better take me, John,” said he, “we can't waste time like this.”

I carried him to bed. I wonder, now, how we quite managed to arrive there. We were laughing, yes, delirious, so happy to have realised our truth. _It took a drinking game to get there_. We were bare, we were entwined, and we were making love. At last. _At last._ At last.

And afterwards, we wrapped around each other.

“You're a cuddler,” I said. He kissed my chest. “The more you know.” A thought occurred to me. “That document!” I said. “We never found it.”

“Oh, I remembered where I put it,” he said airily.

“But, what?!”

“Inside my wardrobe drawer,” said he – as if that were a commonplace and safe enough location. “John, don't _think_ of that. It's tedious. We've years to catch up on, with _this_.”

“Let's catch up now,” I said. I rolled him over in the bed.

\- END -


End file.
